


The Shortest Way Home

by Catchclaw



Series: Mental Mimosa [116]
Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: AU where Thor Aims For the Head, Bucky and His Goats, Canon Divergence - Avengers: Infinity War Part 1 (Movie), Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Avengers: Infinity War Part 1 (Movie), Wakanda
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-19
Updated: 2018-08-19
Packaged: 2019-06-29 15:26:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 827
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15732219
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Catchclaw/pseuds/Catchclaw
Summary: When you reach him, there’s blood seeping through his fingers and his face is dull and stunned, like he struck his head on something as he fell.





	The Shortest Way Home

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: Hurt/comfort. Prompt from this [generator](http://colormayfade.tumblr.com/generator).

When you reach him, there’s blood seeping through his fingers and his face is dull and stunned, like he struck his head on something as he fell. Did he fall? You crouch beside him on the ground and reach for him, draw him towards you, lean his head against your stomach and hold on. This seems important: that you hold on.

Somewhere, Thor is still bellowing, the sound of his ax reverberating through the earth beneath you, and there’s a terrible smell in the air that makes your mouth feel like ash.

“Did we--?” Bucky says, his voice faint. “Is he--?”

You wind your arms tighter around him and press your palm against his side, the torn leather there, the flesh, his blood rushing over your skin with each pulse of his heart.

“We did.”

Some of the tension in his body releases. It doesn’t stop the blood flowing. “Thank god.”

You’ve seen this man injured before, cut up, shot up, bullets passing through him and knives, but you’ve never seen him laid this low by a single wound, albeit a terrible one. You bent your head and kiss the top of his, try to settle your fear, try to offer him some comfort; an instinct hard wired.

“You ok?” you say. “Bleeding pretty bad, buddy, but we can fix it.”

“‘M ok,” he mumbles. “Doesn’t hurt bad. But my head, it felt like”--he shivers, turns his face against your chest--”everything got real thin for a moment there, fragmented. I felt like, I don’t know, like I was gonna blow away or something. Like the world was made out of torn paper.” 

You curl yourself over him, around him, shield his body with yours. The troops are coming, all of T’Challa’s forces, you can hear the triumphant roar of them rushing towards the forest, towards Thanos’ corpse, towards you. “You’re safe now,” you whisper to him, this man who is the love of your life. “Buck, I promise. You’re safe.”

He chuckles, reed-thin, and squeezes your fingers, clutches your hand that’s soaked red. “You may have to remind me of that,” he says, “every day for the rest of my life.”

“Every day,” you say, your lips finding his forehead. “Every single one."

 

*****

One of the goats is missing. Bucky counts three times to be sure.

“I don’t get it,” he says, leaning hard against his staff, a frown cutting his face. “Between you, me, and the dog, how in the hell did she slip away?”

You push your hair back and stand up in the sun, the pound of midday heat on your back. “I’ll go,” you say. “She can’t have gone far.”

He stares at your for a second, assessing. It’s been two months but Buck’s still dubious about your goat wrangling skills, not necessarily because you’ve done something wrong, but because to him, the goats are family, with names and personalities and particular ways of being. T’Challa’s told you, quietly, that Bucky refused to raise animals for slaughter, that when he found out what was supposed to be the fate of his first flock, he’d rebelled, threatened to fight anyone who tried to take them away. “It was a simple fix,” T’Challa told you, an easy problem to solve; now Buck raises the finest milkers in the kingdom and he’s still fiercely protective of every one.

They’ve spent the morning driving the goats from their favorite shady creek back towards their pen. A storm is scheduled for just after noon, one that’s much needed, but Bucky wants them penned up safely well before then.

“I’ll go,” you say again, reaching for your own staff. “Really, Buck. I’ll find her. Be home in plenty of time.”

Above you, most of the sky is still blue. For weeks, the dome had borne the scars of Thanos’ hand, of the claws of his children, but those cracks are long healed. The only sign of danger are the darkening clouds on the far western horizon; the seeds of the storm soon to be born, thanks to one of Shuri’s marvelous machines.

You step carefully towards him, your soft boots finding space between sleeping goats, silly goats, goats turning in circles, looking for the shortest way home.

“She likes bushes,” Bucky says when you reach him, when you take his face in your hand. “The thornier, the better. Be warned.”

You kiss him, taste the salt of his sweat, the tang of cold water. “I’ll be fine.”

He crowds closer and trails his free hand up your back, his fingertips stroking the bare, sun-skinned stretch. “You’d better be.”

You kiss him again and you cling to each other, the heat of the day all at once less important than the feel of his body, the soft plush of his mouth. Then he gives you a push, just enough to break the spell.

“Go on,” he says, his face lit up behind his beard. “Go on, Stevie. Shoo.”


End file.
